


As Wolves Like Dogs

by Mireille



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Community: maleslashminis, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-12
Updated: 2006-11-12
Packaged: 2019-03-13 09:30:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13567722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mireille/pseuds/Mireille
Summary: A very junior Watcher. A chance meeting. A big mistake.





	As Wolves Like Dogs

**Author's Note:**

> _Flatterers look like friends, as wolves like dogs._ \-- George Chapman

Wesley toyed with his glass for a moment before speaking, afraid he'd be revealing unsuspected depths of ignorance; this sort of thing hadn't been covered very thoroughly in his Council training. "It would... wouldn't it just have been easier to meet somewhere more private?" 

The man opposite him finished chalking a complex symbol on the corner of their table, then looked up at him. "Oh, absolutely," he agreed, smiling. "But I don't want you thinking I had any sort of--ulterior motives, shall we say?--behind asking for this." His voice was low, the tone warm and amused, and despite the words, Wesley found himself hoping the dim light here in the back corner of the pub would conceal his flush. He hadn't thought anything of the sort, but now he found himself considering the possibility. 

"Of course not," Wesley said quickly. "And if you're certain now that we won't be observed--"

"No one will notice anything out of the ordinary," his companion replied. "We'll just be sitting here having a quiet drink." 

"Good," Wesley said, picking up the paper parcel from the seat next to him. Trained to secrecy by the Council, he'd have been reluctant to discuss the book without the benefit of the privacy spell. Perhaps they really should have considered meeting somewhere other than a pub, but the other man had suggested it, and Wesley had felt.... 

Well, he'd felt guilty that he'd just bought the only copy--possibly the only copy in England--of a book that the man had so clearly wanted, particularly as the book was destined for the Council library, and he'd wanted to be as accommodating as possible. The least he could do was to let this stranger have a look at the section of the book he'd been interested in, and when he'd made the suggestion that they meet up at the pub round the corner from the bookshop, Wesley had agreed, and let the stranger stand him a drink as a measure of his gratitude. 

And now the other man, who'd introduced himself as a Mr. Rayne, was turning to a point about two-thirds of the way through the book, pulling a pen out of his coat pocket and beginning to write on a bar napkin. 

"I have a notebook," Wesley offered, pulling a small wirebound book from his own pocket and tearing out a few sheets. 

"I seem to be putting you to a lot of trouble," Rayne said with another smile. 

"It's no trouble," he argued. "It's the least I can do, in fact; I'd hardly like to think that I'm standing in the way of serious scholarly work." Rayne hadn't been terribly specific about what he was researching, which Wesley was used to; his father's friends never went into much detail about their own areas of expertise, at least not in front of Wesley. Wesley'd got the impression that the man was a folklorist, however, and Wesley couldn't see the harm in letting the man have a look at the book in question. It couldn't do any harm, after all; the book was an eighteenth-century analysis of some twelfth-century prophecies, and Wesley's tutor (his Council tutor, that was, and not the one from Oxford) had mentioned that it was of mild interest to Arthurian scholars. 

More than mild interest, possibly, from the way Rayne was scribbling notes down, and Wesley wondered what he found so fascinating. Perhaps Wesley would look through it before placing it in the Council library; he wouldn't be expected to bring it in before he went to work tomorrow morning, after all, and he could spend the evening reading. 

Wesley took a sip of his drink, trying not to wince at the taste. He wasn't much of a drinker, and he'd have preferred a pint. But Rayne had made his offer of a drink by saying, "Whiskey all right with you?" and Wesley hadn't wanted to seem ungrateful, or make it obvious that he wasn't used to more than a glass of beer from time to time. 

At least Rayne wasn't paying much attention to him at the moment, so Wesley could sip the liquor slowly, watching the other man's hand fly across the page, leaving lines of small, neat script. 

He hadn't even drunk half the glass when Rayne looked up, setting down the pen and flexing his fingers. "That's done it. You're a life-saver, Wesley--you don't mind if I call you Wesley, do you?" 

"No," Wesley said, after a startled moment. "Of course not."

"Good. And I'm _Ethan_ ; the last person who called me 'Mr. Rayne' was arresting me." He chuckled, and a few seconds later, Wesley joined him, showing that he recognized what a ridiculous idea that was. 

"Can I get you another?" Rayne--no, Ethan--asked, getting to his feet as Wesley wrapped the book up securely once again. 

"No, I'm all right." 

"I'm keeping you from something," Ethan said, shaking his head. "I should have realized." 

Wesley shook his head. "Not at all," he said. "I just haven't finished this one." 

The response was another smile, this one brighter and warmer than before, and Wesley found himself smiling back. There were things he should be doing, but they could wait. He hadn't had an evening out in months; he was due some time away from his work. 

When Ethan returned from the bar, he'd brought another drink for Wesley after all, and Wesley accepted it politely, making himself finish the first one as quickly as possible. Even though the whiskey burned his throat, it _did_ make it easier for him to talk; he could feel himself relaxing more as the alcohol reached his system. 

Or perhaps it was just that Ethan seemed to be very good at putting him at ease. Wesley was used to skepticism and scrutiny when he talked about his work--from his former tutors, from his superiors at the Council, from his father--but all Ethan did was listen, and occasionally ask a question that let Wesley know that his attention was in no way feigned. 

"What I don't understand," Ethan said finally, when Wesley's second glass was empty, "is why you were so determined to get that particular book. It's next to useless without the prophecies themselves, and copies of those are difficult to come by."

"I have them," Wesley said. "Or rather, my employers have them, and they're the ones who sent me after the book."

"Your employers," Ethan repeated thoughtfully. "And who might they be?"

Wesley winced, aware he'd said a bit much. The Council's existence was meant to be a secret, after all, and here he'd all but told a virtual stranger about them. "Er. I can't exactly--"

Ethan held a hand up, cutting off Wesley's apology. "I understand," he said. "Besides, I suspect I know who they are." He grinned. "A lot of old men in starched shirts, muttering about duty and responsibility and saving the world from vampires?"

Not a flattering description of the senior members of the Council, but despite its bias, it wasn't inaccurate, either. Wesley's gaze flew to the sigils chalked at the edge of the table, trying to reassure himself that he hadn't failed, hadn't given everything away. "How--" He caught himself in time. "What makes you think that?"

"I knew one of them. Briefly." His smile this time was tight and fleeting. "How do you think I got _my_ copy of those prophecies?"

Wesley blinked. His father's friends in a smoky pub, drinking rather bad whiskey and talking to a man who was obviously, for all his intelligence, not _quite_ their sort of person? It was almost impossible to believe. Then he shook his head. Of course it was, but there was no reason to doubt Ethan, either. The Council did occasionally contract with outsiders, when specialized knowledge was required, and it wasn't difficult to believe that Ethan might have come into professional contact with a Watcher before now. 

Relaxing more, Wesley said, "So now you see what I was doing in that bookshop." 

The warmth was back in Ethan's voice when he responded. "And what do _you_ do for...your employers?" he asked. "Considering that you're neither old nor stuffy."

Wesley looked down at his hands for a moment. Old, he certainly wasn't; right now he felt ridiculously young. "Translation, mostly," he replied. "I'm hoping for a field post eventually, of course, but I've only just completed my training...." 

And then an hour had passed, and Wesley realized guiltily that he'd been monopolizing the conversation. Ethan waved away his apology, however. "Did you hear me complaining?" he said. "I enjoyed myself." 

Wesley flushed, not completely convinced that he was telling the truth. 

"Tell you what," Ethan went on. "Just to prove that you didn't bore me to tears, what do you say to doing this again tomorrow night? Somewhere a bit quieter, perhaps?" And on the last sheet of note-paper Wesley had given him, he wrote down the name and address of another pub. "Around seven o'clock?"

Wesley took the paper, not minding at all that he hadn't really been given a chance to say no.

***

Wesley found the pub without any trouble; it was smaller than the one he'd met Rayne--Ethan--in last night, darker, smokier. Quieter, too, as people seemed to cluster in small groups, talking to their companions and not greeting friends from across the room.

Ethan was sitting at a table near the back; he raised a hand in greeting when he saw Wesley, breaking into a smile as Wesley approached. Wesley found himself smiling back. 

After a long day in his tiny office--he suspected it had been a broom-cupboard once--poring over his books, it was good to get out and have a drink with--well, not a friend; he'd only met the man yesterday. But a friendly face, at least, and there weren't many of those in Wesley's life at present. Not that his colleagues were anything but pleasant to him, but most of them remembered him from his childhood, and it was difficult for them to regard him as an equal. 

Ethan not only did that, but seemed to think he was _interesting_ , which wasn't something Wesley was used to thinking about himself. 

He did remember common courtesy tonight, letting his companion do more of the talking. It was well worth it; Wesley found himself laughing with Ethan about the outrageous anecdotes he told and the wry observations he made about the other patrons, some of whom Ethan seemed to know. 

They talked about the weather and their drinks; they talked about books and music; they talked--when Wesley had realized that no one was paying them the slightest bit of attention and in very general terms--about Wesley's translations and Ethan's research. 

And after a while, Wesley realized that they were talking about nothing in particular, just from a desire, on his end at least, to keep the conversation going as long as possible. 

No ulterior motives, he reminded himself, and felt vaguely, uncomfortably, disappointed.

***

"I never knew this was here," Wesley said, as Ethan pushed open the door of the shop.

"No, you wouldn't," Ethan replied. "If you don't already know where to look, you'll never find it--and even then, you may not be able to. It's very... exclusive. Luckily, you have me." He grinned at Wesley. "To vouch for you," he added, and Wesley wasn't even certain he'd heard the pause between the words. 

Wesley smiled back, going inside and surveying the shop. It was tiny and cramped, but he could see the titles of the books on the nearest shelf. Nothing _exceptionally_ rare, though Ethan had mentioned that the owner frequently handled sales of private collections, but nonetheless, books one couldn't acquire in a run-of-the-mill shop, or even a run-of-the-mill occult bookshop. 

"Go on," Ethan said. "Look around." 

Wesley needed no further encouragement, perusing the shelves and making notes about what would be the most useful in his own research, what volumes might make a good Christmas gift for his father and a few of his co-workers. 

He had no idea how much time had passed before he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Having fun?" Ethan murmured into his ear. 

Wesley turned, speaking in the same quiet voice. "This is quite remarkable. Most of these books are difficult to find unless you know someone who wants to sell his copy." He smiled. "Thank you."

"You could have come here any time you liked, it seems."

"What?" Wesley shook his head. "I didn't know it existed." 

"Really?" Ethan raised an eyebrow. "Arthur--" he gestured toward the elderly man dusting a shelf of books across the small room-- "tells me your father's one of his best customers. At least, I _assume_ 'Roger Wyndam-Pryce' is your father?"

"Ah," Wesley said, feeling foolish. Of course the Council would have known about this place, and of course his father would have been here. And, a little voice in the back of his mind said, of course his father wouldn't have ever thought to bring Wesley along. "No. That is, yes, he is, and no, I had no idea."

"I shouldn't have mentioned it."

"It's all right," Wesley assured him. Ethan's hand, he realized, was still on his shoulder, warm even through the layers of coat and jacket and shirt. Ethan must have realized it too, because he stepped back a little. "I really am grateful you brought me here." 

'Grateful' wasn't quite the word for it, but Wesley didn't feel capable of explaining just how touched he was that someone he'd only known a few weeks would have thought to share this with him. It may have only been a bookshop, but Ethan had known Wesley would enjoy it, and had wanted him to have the chance. 

Wesley turned his attention back to the books, but he found himself distracted by his awareness of Ethan, standing just out of sight behind Wesley and turning the pages of a book he'd taken from the shelves.

***

Lunch with his father was always an ordeal--far more than Sunday dinners with his parents, where at least his mother's presence acted as a buffer between her husband and son. On the third Tuesday of every month, though, it was only Wesley and his father; Wesley spent the mornings of those days in a constant state of dread, and frequently found some excuse to be out of the office those afternoons, so that no one would ask him about his obvious agitation.

Today was no different; they'd barely taken their seats when his father frowned at him. "I hope you haven't been neglecting your work," he said. "Your mother says you've been out when she's tried to ring you."

"I've been in the office at least six days a week," Wesley protested quietly, looking down at the menu. 

"She knows better than to interrupt you there," his father corrected him. "She's been calling you at home, in the evenings."

"No, I haven't been home much," he agreed. He hadn't been working any less than he had been before meeting Ethan, but the time he spent away from work had been much busier. He was enjoying having something to do a few evenings a week besides return to his quiet flat for a night of reading. 

He thought he wouldn't mention Ethan to his father. Particularly not as Wesley had found himself thinking lately that perhaps Ethan _did_ have ulterior motives in wanting to spend time with him, after all. Or perhaps that was _hoping_ he had them. 

And he wouldn't mention the bookshop, either, because he knew his father well enough to know that he wouldn't see any reason he should have mentioned it to Wesley. It was easier to accept if he didn't have to hear it spelled out for him. 

"Wesley, you know you won't be considered a full member of the Council for at least another year. You can't afford to lower your standards even slightly."

"No, sir. I know that. I haven't been wasting my time; I've tracked down a few references that--"

"Well, don't forget it," his father grumbled, turning his own attention to the menu in his hand and effectively dismissing anything else Wesley had to say. 

Wesley made it through the rest of the meal without encountering any more than his father's usual disapproval, though when his father cut things short, saying that he had an appointment to get to, Wesley was still tremendously relieved. 

It had been bright and sunny that morning, but it was cloudy when he left the restaurant, and as Wesley's walk back to his office took him past his flat, he decided to go upstairs and get his umbrella. It was cold enough even at midday that he didn't like the thought of getting soaked through on his walk home. 

To his surprise, his phone was ringing as he unlocked his front door. Wesley sprinted across the room, dropping his keys on the floor, and picked the phone up just in time to stop the answering machine from taking the call. "Hello?"

"Wes?" Ethan said, clearly surprised. "What are you doing home at this hour?"

"Forgot something," he said shortly, not wanting to try to say more than that. 

"Sorry if this is a bad time," Ethan said. "I was expecting to leave you a message."

Wesley sighed. "No, it's not a bad time; I'm just... out of breath, is all." He wanted to tell Ethan about his father, about how someone he'd known less than two months took more of an interest in what he had to say than one of the people who'd brought him up, but that was too much to expect anyone to want to listen to. 

Ethan seemed to accept Wesley's explanation, though, and he went on. "I was wondering if you're free tonight. I ran into someone I used to know, and his band's playing at a club tonight. They're not bad, and I thought, if you weren't busy, we might--"

That wasn't the professional courtesy of taking Wesley to the bookshop, or even two men in similar professions sharing stories over a drink. This was... exactly what Wesley needed today; something to let him forget his father's disapproval and disinterest. 

"No," Wesley said. "No, I'm not busy at all. I'd love to."

***

People here knew Ethan. They stopped by the table to exchange a few words; they brought new lovers or old friends by to say hello; they smiled or glared or flirted from across the room. And all of them, Wesley thought, were looking at him speculatively, wondering what he was doing here, and what Ethan was doing with him. A few of them seemed to know who he was--"That's him, then?" said with a glance toward Wesley--but they lost interest once Ethan agreed. Wesley didn't know what to make of the idea that Ethan had been telling people about him, but he couldn't help but be a little pleased.

The club wasn't the sort of place Wesley would have ever come to on his own, but--the stares from Ethan's friends aside--he was enjoying himself well enough. The band wasn't all that good, but they weren't bad either, and he'd been right: an evening spent in Ethan's company was the perfect antidote to an afternoon with his father. 

After the set was over, Ethan's friend the drummer came and sat with them for a bit, and he and Ethan talked idly about people Wesley had never met, or even heard mentioned before. Wesley expected to feel bored and excluded, but instead, he found distraction in the fact that for some reason, Ethan's hand was resting in the small of his back. No one else seemed to think anything of it, and so Wesley found himself wondering if perhaps there was nothing to be made of it, if this were some social custom he was previously unaware of. 

The man left after a few minutes; Wesley honestly couldn't say how long. Ethan turned to him, grinning. "Ready to go?" 

"We can stay longer, if you want," Wesley said; as long as Ethan seemed willing to sit and talk with him, he didn't feel too terribly out of place. 

"Too crowded," Ethan said, still grinning, and Wesley nodded. 

"All right. Let's go, then." 

Outside, the night was damp and chilly; they walked briskly along the street for a few minutes, until they stopped at the corner where they would part ways. 

"I'm a terrible liar, you know," Ethan said, smirking, and Wesley felt his heart sink. He didn't know what Ethan had lied about--what he could have lied about, really. 

All he said was, "How so?"

"I told you I didn't have an ulterior motive, that day I met you." Ethan's grin was brighter now, his face very close to Wesley's. "And I do." 

"I forgive you," Wesley murmured as Ethan leaned in to kiss him. 

Wesley's lips parted eagerly for him; the sense of freedom--of being given permission to think and feel all the things he'd been telling himself to ignore over the past weeks--almost overwhelming. He moaned softly as Ethan's tongue slid against his, Ethan's hand came up to cup the back of his head. 

And then Ethan pulled back, shaking his head. "We don't want anyone coming along to spoil this," he said. 

It took Wesley a moment to process what he'd said, and then he nodded his agreement. To his disappointment, Ethan didn't suggest that they go elsewhere--Ethan claimed that his landlord discouraged visitors to the room he rented, but Wesley's flat wasn't that far away. Even closer if they'd taken a taxi. 

But instead, Ethan's thumb brushed lightly over Wesley's lower lip, and he said, "I'll see you tomorrow," his voice so warm that Wesley couldn't bring himself to object. 

"Come to my flat," he said, then clarified. "Tomorrow. Eight o'clock. I'll cook."

"All right," Ethan said, sounding amused. "I'll see you then." 

Wesley forgot his earlier disappointment on his walk home; it was difficult to concentrate on anything but the feeling of Ethan's mouth against his.

***

Dinner had been a success; the candlelight had hidden the slight imperfections in the looks of the meal, and Wesley, at least, hadn't paid enough attention to his food to know how it tasted. There'd been too many distractions: too many casual touches and quiet words and glimpses of the candle flames reflected in Ethan's eyes as he watched Wesley, and Wesley found that he wasn't very hungry at all.

And then Ethan reached out and snuffed the candles. On Wesley's quizzical look, he smirked. "We don't want to start a fire while we're not paying attention," he said. 

Wesley flushed at the turn his imagination took at that, grateful that Ethan wouldn't be able to see. Then Ethan's hands curled in Wesley's shirtfront, pulling him onto his feet and into a kiss, and Wesley had no way to respond but by opening his mouth and putting his arms around Ethan's waist. 

"Don't worry," Ethan murmured. "I've done this before," and Wesley's flush intensified at the realization that Ethan knew he hadn't. Not with a man, at least, because he'd been at school and at university and at the Council, and there had been no one he could trust to know this about him. 

But now there was Ethan, who laughed at Wesley's startled gasp when Ethan slid a hand between them, caressing Wesley through his trousers until he could feel his cock hardening. Ethan, who rocked against him, hardness and heat and friction until Wesley moaned, clutching at Ethan's hips to pull him closer. 

Ethan, whose lips brushed Wesley's ear, tongue darting out to trace the outline of his earlobe, before he whispered, "I'm going to fuck you tonight. That all right with you?" and seemed perfectly able to translate Wesley's strangled groan properly into _Yes, God, yes._

Wesley had imagined, when he imagined himself allowing this to ever happen, some quick anonymous fumbling somewhere a long way from London, just to satisfy his own curiosity. He'd never thought it'd be with someone who wanted _him_ , who seemed, despite all logic, to like him. Someone Wesley trusted. 

And yes, Ethan had done this before; he didn't have to stop kissing Wesley for more than a few seconds in order to get Wesley's jacket and tie and shirt off, didn't pull away completely until Wesley was toeing off his shoes and stepping out of his trousers, feeling ridiculous and self-conscious in his underwear and socks. 

Ethan looked him over, grinning, and Wesley felt himself relax; he hadn't realized how much he'd been expecting disapproval. Then, while he finished undressing, Ethan stripped, with none of Wesley's awkwardness. In bright light, Wesley thought, there might have been signs of the difference in their ages, life leaving its marks on Ethan's body; but here and now, Wesley couldn't see a single imperfection. 

"Like what you see?" Ethan asked, and Wesley relished the tone of his voice, the way he could tell that the amusement in it was not at his expense. 

His mouth was too dry to answer, so Wesley only nodded. Ethan kissed him again, his hands sliding over Wesley's skin as though mapping the contours of his flesh. 

"Shouldn't we be in the bedroom?" Wesley managed, finally, and Ethan laughed. 

"How about we get rid of all your inhibitions at one go?" he said, leading Wesley to the couch. 

The bed, Wesley thought, would probably be more comfortable, but Ethan's hand was on his cock and Ethan's teeth were tugging at his earlobe and Ethan, he discovered proudly, could be made to groan and buck his hips forward and swear at the feather-light, hesitant touch of Wesley's finger on his cock. 

Then Wesley was on the couch, hands and one knee on the cushions while he braced himself with a foot on the floor, and Ethan had picked up his trousers from the floor, searching in the pockets. 

Wesley closed his eyes in apprehension, so the feel of a cold, slick finger against him made him gasp in surprise. 

"Easy, Wes," Ethan said. "It'll all be better if you try to relax."

Wesley began to breathe deeply and slowly, almost as if he were meditating--although he wasn't certain how much inner tranquility he could gain when Ethan's finger was pushing slowly into him, pausing every few seconds until the pain faded and Wesley adjusted to the intrusion. That did help him relax, the knowledge that Ethan was trying not to hurt him, and so when a second finger joined the first, Wesley kept breathing, kept waiting for something good, something more--

Wesley groaned suddenly as Ethan's fingers moved inside him, his flagging erection returning from the jolts of pleasure coming from each brush against what must have been his prostate. It seemed like forever before Ethan pulled his fingers slowly out; Wesley moaned at the sudden feeling of emptiness. 

"Won't be a minute," Ethan promised, and Wesley concentrated on keeping his breathing under control. He heard the sound of something tearing, and Ethan's weight shifting on the couch, and then, finally--

It was too big, too much, he was never going to be able to, didn't _want_ to be able to have that inside him. He opened his mouth to protest just as Ethan's hand snaked around his hip, wrapping around his cock, and the protest became a groan. 

And then it was better, the pain receding until he could focus on how incredibly _good_ it felt, as well, until he was pushing back to meet Ethan's thrusts, and thrusting forward into Ethan's hand, and unable to worry or think or do anything at all but come, hard, and dismiss the fleeting thought that it was going to be hell to clean the sofa. 

Ethan was still inside him, still moving, and Wesley pushed back against him again, urging him in deeper, until Ethan groaned and came, slumping against Wesley's back as he caught his breath. 

After a few moments when their breathing was the only sound in the room, Wesley sighed. "We should probably get cleaned up," he said, wondering whether Ethan would want to get dressed and leave, or whether Wesley could persuade him to stay. 

Ethan mumbled something, then lifted his head from Wesley's shoulder to speak more clearly. "And then you should practice what you're going to tell your boss when you call in sick tomorrow morning," he said. "I doubt 'I can't possibly make it in to the office today, I'm getting buggered,' will pass muster." 

Wesley didn't fake illness to miss work, he never had, but the thought was definitely tempting. Right now he didn't want to move, at all. "I can't," he said, sighing. "In fact, I don't think I'll be free tomorrow night, even," he went on, as Ethan got up and put the condom in the wastepaper basket under Wesley's desk. 

"Don't tell me they're sending you out after vampires," Ethan said. "I thought you had Slayers to do that." He made the word "Slayer" sound as though it left a bad taste in his mouth, and Wesley wondered, briefly, why, before realizing that he'd heard some of his colleagues pronounce the word in just the same way: as though the girls were a necessary evil, no more. 

"Of course they're not," Wesley said, turning his head to look at him. "There's just... one of the departments has something rather big going on, and we don't know what, exactly, will need to be done afterward." 

"I'd never thought there could be such a thing as a translation emergency."

Wesley shrugged. "There's someone doing big business in importing mystical artifacts, which is bad enough," he began. 

"The Council don't approve of importing artifacts?"

"These are either stolen or dangerous, or both," Wesley explained. Sometimes he forgot how little Ethan really knew about what Wesley did for a living; he'd accepted the existence of the supernatural, which was probably easier for a folklorist than many people, but he didn't actually have any _experience_ with it. Not that Wesley had much, other than his training, but that would come in time. "Not to mention that there's a rumor going around that he's hired some third-rate sorcerer to summon a demon for him to use as a watchdog."

Ethan stopped halfway across the room. "You don't say." 

"Don't worry," Wesley said. "It'll be taken care of before sunset tomorrow, and from what I understand, the demon in question is best summoned at the new moon. That's nearly a week from now, so there's no chance anyone will be hurt by it."

"That's... that's good," Ethan said, sounding a little distant, and Wesley wondered if he'd said too much. Perhaps he ought to introduce Ethan to things like the reality of demons on a _gradual_ basis. 

Ethan rejoined Wesley on the couch, and Wesley sat up, leaning against Ethan's shoulder. "So you're going to be busy tomorrow," he said. 

"At least tomorrow. Possibly more, depending on how much of what the team manages to confiscate is written materials."

"Then I think," Ethan said, leaning in for a kiss, "I should stay here tonight, so that we can make the most of it."

***

Even in Wesley's department, there was an air of expectation all day. The most excitement they were likely to see as a result of the raid was a few new books to translate, but still, everyone knew what was happening. Wesley found himself standing in the corridor talking to Alistair Shepley, who'd been at school with him and whom Wesley had always loathed, about how good it was to see the Council actually _doing_ something.

Not, of course, they both agreed, that the Council never did anything. It was just rarely anywhere near London, and they both envied St. John, another classmate of theirs who'd been fortunate enough to be working in the right department to be included. 

Shepley was still insufferable. Wesley decided after a few minutes' conversation that retreating back to his desk was his best option, but between the restrained excitement in the office and Wesley's own mood, he found that the other man didn't bother him as much as usual. 

It was probably fortunate that there was something to attribute his good mood to, in fact, or someone might have asked him why he was walking around all day smiling. And there was nothing he could say to that, no one he could tell that he'd woken up that morning to the unfamiliar pleasure of another body in bed next to him, that the reason he'd been on time instead of his usual forty-five minutes early was that he'd been unable to resist the temptation of Ethan's mouth on his cock. 

No one asked, though, and so Wesley went through the afternoon smiling to himself and wondering if perhaps tomorrow he'd have some time free in the evening. It would depend on what the field team brought in, of course, but if he could get away at a reasonable hour.... 

And then, suddenly, Wesley realized that the atmosphere had changed, that the voices in the hall outside his door were low and urgent and worried. He got up, going out to the front desk, passing little knots of his father's contemporaries, their heads together in murmured conversations. 

Chelford and St. John were both standing near the main entrance, leaning on one another for support, and even from a distance, Wesley could see the blood soaking St. John's shirt. And on the other side of the room, Mr. Travers himself was patting the shoulder of a sobbing Ruth Ackerley, whose husband had been in charge of the team. 

Horrified, Wesley went back down the corridor in search of someone who knew what had happened. Fortunately, Pritchard was there--Pritchard, who'd been Wesley's _father's_ tutor when he'd been at Oxford, and who probably should have retired decades ago--waving his cane at Grimsby, head of Acquisitions. "Complete cock-up," Pritchard bellowed. "I knew it would be. You lot don't know your arses from your elbows, not like in my day."

Grimsby sniffed. "From what I've heard, Quinn was _warned_. That pet sorcerer of his had already summoned the bloody demon when our team got there. They were lucky to get out alive." There was a pause, and then she added, "Those that did, at least." 

"Warned?" Pritchard snorted. "So it's not that you're idiots, it's that you're idiots who don't know how to keep your mouths shut?" 

He continued to grumble even after Grimsby stalked back down to her office and slammed the door. Even from inside his office, Wesley could hear enough to piece the story together. 

Edgar Quinn had been warned the Council were going to try to stop him, and had gone ahead and pushed his plans forward, preferring to risk failure rather than abandoning them altogether. When the Council team had entered the factory, the demon Quinn's sorcerer had summoned had attacked, killing Ackerley and injuring the others. They'd just barely managed to escape, and now, instead of a shady businessman and a magician for hire, the Council had a Tekral demon to contend with, all because someone had let slip....

Someone had mentioned....

Wesley closed his eyes. Last night, he'd told Ethan... and Ethan had mentioned a busy few days of work ahead of him.... 

No. That was ridiculous. Ethan was an academic, he wasn't.... 

A little voice that sounded suspiciously like his father's whispered in the back of Wesley's mind. _You don't know that._

Wesley got his coat; no one noticed him slipping away from the office, not when there was so much else to occupy their attention. He might never have been to Ethan's place, but he knew where it was. 

Ethan's landlady opened the door, an elderly woman with a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. "That was quick," she said. "I only just rang up to put the advert in."

"Pardon?"

"You're here about the room, aren't you?"

Wesley shook his head. "No, I'm a... I'm a friend of Ethan Rayne's. Is he in?"

She took a drag of her cigarette before answering. "That's what I just said, isn't it? Moved out this morning. The room's clean, though. I just finished up in there."

Ethan was gone. Any last hope Wesley had harbored that Ethan and Edgar Quinn were unconnected vanished. "Did he leave a message for me? My name's Wesley, I'm... I'm a friend of his," he finished weakly. 

She eyed him thoughtfully, shaking her head. "Nothing like that. And if you don't mind me saying so, you're better off without that one, dearie." 

Wesley took a shaky breath. "Yes," he said softly. "I probably was."

***

He walked around for a while, until it got too dark and cold and he went back to his flat. Considering that he'd left Ethan to lock up when he left that morning, Wesley'd be lucky if he hadn't been robbed, he thought.

The flat was as he'd left it, though; nothing moved or changed except a folded piece of paper left on the table, propped against one of the candle stubs from the night before. Reluctantly, Wesley unfolded it, reading the brief, printed note: _Thanks for all your help. Couldn't have done it without you. --E._

Wesley dropped the note as though it burned his fingers.

***

Wesley sat through Sunday dinner, listening to his father expound upon his theories about precisely who had been stupid enough to give away Council secrets and trying to choke down his food. He knew his mother had noticed that he wasn't eating; she'd asked him three times if something was wrong with his food. He'd quickly assured her that it was fine and forced himself to eat a bit more, even if he was beginning to feel ill.

His father was calling the guilty party a traitor, and Wesley flinched. _Treason_ was a bit much, he thought, considering he'd harmed neither Queen nor country, but his father's point was well-taken. He'd been entrusted with secrets, and he'd been flattered into giving them away. He'd been such a fool, actually letting himself believe that Ethan had wanted something other than information. 

The only good thing was that no one seemed to have even suspected that he'd been the one to let something slip. 

It would be the last mistake he'd permit himself to make, he told himself. From now on, he'd be every bit the Watcher his father was, the one his father expected him to be. 

Guiltily, he reflected that perhaps the best way to begin with that would be to admit to his mistakes, but he couldn't bear disappointing his parents that much. If anyone asked him about it, he'd confess, but otherwise, he'd keep silent. 

It could be the first of all the secrets he planned to keep.

**Author's Note:**

> [me on tumblr](https://mireille719.tumblr.com)


End file.
